What If
by Miss Becky
Summary: Sometimes El wonders.


What If

Disclaimer: I don't own El or Sands. They are the property of Robert Rodriguez, god and auteur.

Rating: PG-13

Summary: El wonders.

Author's Note: This is not related to my other series, although I suppose it could be. 

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Sometimes El sits under the stars, and he wonders.

What if?

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What if Marquez had killed him?

Well, that was an easy one. He would be dead, but he would be reunited with Carolina and his little girl.

Not much point in speculating about that one.

****

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What if he had killed Sands?

The screen in the confessional booth left diamond-shaped shadows on his hands. They were killer's hands. Not a musician's hands. Not any more.

Sands was talking, utterly ridiculous in the priest's clothing, and speaking in a voice unlike his own. El wondered if he practiced that voice at home in the mirror.

He could not let it happen, he thought. The man on the other side of that screen was a monster. How could he let Sands get away with this? Stopping Sands might not stop the coup from happening, but it was worth taking the chance.

Without warning, he sprang. Straight at the flimsy screen with its diamond-shaped cutouts. Through it. Crashing through, in a spray of wood.

Sands reacted fast, but not fast enough. The first bullet droned by El's head so close he could feel the wind of its passage. The second struck him in the shoulder.

Then he had hold of Sands. One quick twist of his wrists, and it was over, the agent lying dead on the floor, his neck broken.

El shoved open the door of the confessional. He was bleeding badly. He opened the door to his side, reached in and grabbed his guitar case, and walked out of the church.

****

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What if he had said no?

"And in a way, you're already dead and Marquez is the one who pulled the trigger. So why not return the favor?"

He looked at the CIA agent, and shook his head. "No."

"No?" Sands raised an eyebrow. "You're sure?"

"I will not be a part of this," El said. "When I take down Marquez, it will be on my own terms."

Sands shrugged. He seemed genuinely disappointed. "I have to admit, El – I can call you that, right? – that you are not what I expected. You're sure you won't reconsider?"

He glowered at the cell phone still sitting on the tabletop. "I am sure."

"That is too bad," Sands drawled. He drew his gun so fast El barely had time to look up and see it happen.

The bullets slammed into his chest and stomach, each one accompanied by a flare of hot pain and then spreading cold numbness. He felt his body jerking and quivering in the chair, but stupidly all he could think about was whether the guitar on his lap was unharmed.

Sands stood up. "We could have worked well together. Oh well." He slid his gun into the holster. "No hard feelings, right?"

He clapped El on the shoulder as he walked past. "Oh, by the way...nice guitar."

El closed his eyes, and died.

****

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What if he had walked out into the plaza after killing Barillo?

Smoke and dust from the fighting along the parade route swirled through the air. It did not quite, however, obscure the bodies on the ground. Two men, and one woman.

Nor did the dust hide the other two figures. The man and the boy. The boy was walking alongside a bicycle, his hands on the handlebars. The man limped heavily behind him, one hand on the boy's shoulder.

El Mariachi stared at that man for a long moment, then he deliberately stalked across the plaza.

The man stopped first, his head cocking to one side. The boy stopped a moment later, turning so he could watch the mariachi approach them.

"Why El," Sands said. "Didn't expect to see you again." He gave a short laugh, one that sounded suspiciously like a sob.

El pulled his gun. "You got what you wanted," he said. "Why aren't you gone?"

"Oh well," Sands drawled. "There's been a change in plan. Looks like I'm not going to be leaving with any money today. In fact, I'm going to count myself lucky to make it to the end of the day."

El raised the gun. "Your luck just ran out."

The boy's eyes widened. He shook his head.

El motioned for him to get out of the way. He would not hurt the child.

To his surprise, Sands took his hand off the boy's shoulder. "Go on," he said. "Get out of here."

The boy hesitated, then hopped on his bike and rode to the end of the plaza. There he stopped and looked back at them. Tears ran down his cheeks, a strangely moving sight that El had to work hard to banish from his mind.

Sands held out his arms. "Go on, El. Do it."

So El did. He pulled the trigger three times, and every bullet hit home.

When Sands fell, he was smiling.

El holstered his gun, gave the kid on the bike a long look, and walked out of the plaza.

**** 

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What if he had gone looking for Sands after returning from Marquez's estate?

The problem was, he had no idea where to look. Sands would not return to the same cantina again, so where was he now?

El stalked the streets. He had to do something. Maybe he was too late to stop the coup, and maybe not. He had a feeling Sands could stop it. If only he got to Sands in time.

Wait. There. Two men in suits stood outside a doorway. Two men holding guns and looking very conspicuous in the innocent afternoon.

El crossed the street so he was on their side. He sauntered down the sidewalk, studying his feet. He could feel the looks the men were giving him, but he did not lift his head and acknowledge them.

He walked right past them.

The men began to relax. He continued on down the sidewalk. Fifteen paces beyond the doorway, he turned around and shot them both.

They dropped like silent stones. He hurried forward and peered in the doorway.

What he saw made him swiftly whip back around, out onto the street. Men were hurrying away at the sound of the gunshots, bustling another man wrapped in bloody bandages out of the room. A woman was with them, and in the quick glance he had gotten, El had seen the hatred twisting her beautiful face.

Four men remained inside.

El drew both guns, whispered a short prayer, and stepped into the doorway. He made quick work of them. The last one to go down wasn't even armed, he saw, unless you counted the drill he had been holding in one hand.

On the table, Sands stared up at him through wide, terrified eyes.

El looked at him for a long moment. "Can you stop this?" he asked.

Sands shook his head. He swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure. "It's too late for that," he said.

"No," El said. "It is not too late." He walked forward and released the straps holding Sands down. "I am going to stop it. And you are going to help me."

"What makes you think I'm going to do that?" Sands asked as he got off the table.

"Because I just saved your life," El said.

Sands gave him a sick little smile. "I think you just saved more than that." He looked down at the man with the drill and gave the head a vicious kick between the eyes.

When he looked up at El, he nodded. "All right then. What do we do now?"

****

Sometimes El sits under the stars, and he wonders.


End file.
